Page 33 of Mirror Image

He takes off his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose. When he looks up again, he seems older, smaller.

“Jenn,” he says quietly, “there’s nothing I can say to make it right. But for context—David was up for a promotion. The board adored him. I knew he’d be my boss within weeks. And my wife . . . you remember Rose. She had stage-three ovarian cancer. David promised to get her into a clinical trial if I recused myself from your hearing.”

I study his face for any flicker of deceit. Nothing. Then again, Julian has always been a master at keeping his expression neutral.

I remember when Rose was first diagnosed—how he took a leave to take her everywhere: Sloan Kettering, Mayo, Dana-Farber. Back then, it reassured me, seeing how fiercely he loved her. There’d been rumors years earlier, before my residency—something about a graduate fellow he’d mentored a little too closely. But I’d never witnessed anything that aligned with the gossip. With me, he’d always been professional, polished, devoted.

Maybe he was both things at once.

Maybe he’s telling the truth now. Maybe not.

In the end, does it really matter why he did it?

“And did it help?” I ask flatly.

“It bought her another year. A good one.” He sighs. “I’ll always hate David for forcing my hand, but I won’t lie—I’d do it again. I regret the means, but not the time we gained.”

And there it is. Desperate people do desperate things.

We sit in silence for a long moment, the air heavy between us.

“You’re close with the Langstons,” I finally say.

Relief flickers across his face at the pivot to neutral territory.

“Yes. I knew Doug’s father, Lloyd, for years—consulted for Langston Pharma. They were actually estranged for some time after Doug and Theresa married. But when they adopted Mary, everything changed.” He pauses for a long, thoughtful moment. “They’re good people who adore their daughter, Jenn. That much will be obvious when I introduce you.”

The last line stops me short.

“Oh, that’s really not necessary, Julian. It’s better if I go alone. I’d like to get my own read first.”

He hesitates, thumb running along the spine of his red notebook.

“They trust me, Jenn. It might make things easier.”

“I’ll manage,” I assure him politely but firmly.

“Yes, of course,” he agrees with a weary nod.

The sadness in his face tugs at something old and buried. His confession about Rose has loosened memories I’ve spent years trying to pack away. I flash on my husband’s face—his steady warmth, the way he anchors me—and feel a small shudder at the thought of losing him.

Maybe that’s why I offer the tiniest olive branch.

“Julian,” I say quietly, “I’m sorry about Rose.”

For a moment we’re just two people staring at one another across the wreckage of a decade.

“Thank you,” he says gently. “I appreciate that, Jenn.”

And, for the first time in years, I almost believe him.

They’ve been thoughtful enough to clear a small office for me to use, and I take advantage of it to go through Mary’s file before meeting with her parents in an hour. I’m so engrossed, I don’t even register that someone has entered the room.

“Hard at work, I see,” Kellogg says as he drops down into the chair across from me.

I look up at him. “Something I can do for you, Dr. Kellogg?”

“Word is out that Samantha is dead and Mary’s being treated here. The news trucks are already setting up camp in the parking lot, and the hospital’s PR office is being flooded with requests for a news conference.”